


Childish

by cultivateourgarden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cultivateourgarden/pseuds/cultivateourgarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a particular way of comforting and calming himself, and it's fine with John.  Others, however, aren't quite so understanding.  Response to a kink-meme prompt (link within).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Childish

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a response to the following prompt:
> 
> "When Sherlock is in a particularly black mood, he does something he used to do for comfort as a child, for example, sucking his thumb, poking himself in the corner of his eye with the soft edge of a blanket, cuddling a bear, humming twinkle twinkle little star to himself, suddenly deciding to become the human equivalent of a limpet with John...you get the idea. Anything that that helps drag him out of that mood, even if it's only enough to keep going.
> 
> The first time John sees him doing his little comfort routine, he finds it...well...adorable for lack of a better word and if it makes Sherlock feel better and it's not hurting anyone, then he'll let him keep doing it.
> 
> However, not everyone is so kind. During one of Sherlock's black moods, Lestrade has to conduct a drugs bust (invent a reason for the bust here)and one of the people conducting the search sees a snippet of his comfort routine and starts to take the piss out of him. Cue Protective!John ripping the individual to shreds."
> 
> Posted and edited from [this thread](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=127901377#t127901377).

People frequently said (and John had as well, especially after a few pints with Greg or Mike) that Sherlock was more than a little childish. Yeah, he was a genius, and John’d punch the lights out of anyone who said otherwise. But let’s be honest, he had the emotional range of a ten-year-old boy who still thinks emotions are all ‘icky’. Not to mention his mad-scientist glee at experiments, willingness to leave biological hazards around with an appalling lack of regard for possible cross-contamination, and tendency to sulk. (There was really nothing else you could call it when the person in question crossed their arms and lay on the sofa for hours with their back turned, refusing to answer because someone insisted that at the very least, he confine his experiments to the lower shelves of the fridge.)

Still, Sherlock had...moods at times. When he’d said that sometimes he didn’t talk for weeks on end, he wasn’t exaggerating. It hadn’t taken John long to work out that Sherlock’s complaints about boredom weren’t just another of his childish traits. It was an avoidance mechanism of sorts.

One time, after waiting to use the bathroom for the better part of an hour and knocking several times with no response, John had picked the lock, his heart pounding in his throat. Sherlock had been standing in front of the mirror, his face half-shaved, the foam dried and stiff on the remaining side. Just standing, as if he was frozen, with such a dull, apathetic look that it nearly knocked the breath right out of John. He’d been on the other side of that look before. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do--or maybe it was exactly the right thing to do--but he pulled Sherlock out of there, foam and all, called off work, and sat on the sofa with him, watching crap telly all day. It wasn’t until the evening that Sherlock finally spoke.

“Can you imagine, John...being the most powerful computer in the world. Able to do mind-blowingly complex problems in the blink of an eye. And yet, day after day--nearly every day, all you get is simple maths problems. What’s the _point_ of it?” John didn’t have an answer for that. So, yeah, complaining about boredom was probably one of his better ways of coping. And even those bloody experiments could probably have been worse. At least the body parts came from people who were dead to begin with, right?

It had been a good week or so, and Sherlock was doing experiments--mostly with chemicals this time, so John had to worry about explosions and poisoning more than cross-contamination or viral outbreaks for the moment. And it was pub night too, so he’d popped out to meet Mike and a few other blokes he’d known in school. They always liked having him, because everybody wanted to hear about the Great Sherlock Holmes, and a lot of the time, after a few pints, John could forget the very Sherlock-y voice in the back of his head complaining about how tedious they were. They were good men, all of them. But, God, how did you get through the day when the most exciting thing you had to look forward was a case of appendicitis?

Sherlock was clearly rubbing off on him.

At any rate, he wasn’t really feeling it tonight, so he begged off early and headed home, relishing the steady feel of his leg and the fact he could take the Tube back without needing the disabled seat. A bit of a swing in his step, he unlocked the front door and headed up to the flat.

Upstairs in the sitting room, most of the lights were off, except for a single lamp. Which was enough to illuminate Sherlock Holmes, curled up on the floor with a rather worn teddy, rubbing its stomach against his cheek. For a moment, their eyes met, and Sherlock whisked the toy away so fast that John wasn’t sure he’d seen it, if it weren’t for the way Sherlock was blushing--about as deep as a person could blush, given how pale he was.

For a moment, John was frozen, feeling like he’d walked in on something and that he really should say or do something to make it less awkward. Then Sherlock sat up, back straight and eyes flashing angrily. “No need to stand there gaping like a cod. It’s perfectly clear that you’ve only had two drinks, clearly not enough to rob you of your facility for speech. Mike, and three others, all doctors. One of them drinks heavily; you’re worried about him. And you left because you were bored with the conversation, obvious.”

John shut his mouth with an audible click. True, of course. And he knew Sherlock well enough now to spot him being defensive. Probably expected John to think he’s a freak, or something. So John just shrugged, trying to treat it as if it was completely normal. “Yeah, spot-on as usual. I’ll make tea, then?”

John didn’t wait for Sherlock to answer before he went to go make tea. He figured it’d give Sherlock time to compose himself and finish what he was doing, if he wanted. Honestly, he half expected Sherlock to retreat to his room or something similar, so he was a bit surprised when he heard a faint rustling behind him, as Sherlock settled into a chair at the kitchen table (which had only just enough space on it to be used at the moment). “It isn’t sexual.”

“I didn’t say it was.” John added milk to Sherlock’s cup and poured the tea through a strainer, put in some sugar, and handed to him, before making a cup with just a bit of sugar for himself.

Sherlock sat in silence for a while, sipping his tea, and John noticed a bulge in one of the pockets of Sherlock’s robe that looked rather bear-shaped. Which Sherlock’s free hand was resting on, maybe without realizing it. “It’s better than drugs.” He made a face, the sort of ‘don’t be an idiot’ face he usually reserved for heading off stupid questions. “Not better in the sense of more effective, but the side-effects are less serious. And Mycroft is less likely to interfere.” John did have to hide a bit of a smile at that--Sherlock did get so sulky about his brother at times. “It--allows a certain calming effect. An anchor at times that otherwise might lead to--unwise choices.

John nodded seriously and looked at Sherlock directly until the other man met his eyes, with a look that was guarded, and probably inscrutable to most people. But John, John had known him just long enough to see the insecurity there, the concern that John was going to make fun of him about it. “I think that’s brilliant, all right? So, you like to hold a stuffed bear, so what? I served with a man who’d done four tours of duty. He had a copy of the Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh that he’d dragged all through the Middle East, because reading it made him feel calmer. If it works for you,” John shrugged with a slight smile. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

For the most part, that was honestly one of the less difficult things John had to adjust to about living with Sherlock. The man’s lack of respect for personal boundaries when it came to his dates or his habit of lifting John’s laptop whenever he felt like it were both far more annoying. Every so often, John would come home to find Sherlock curled up with his teddy, which he had found out was named Argon, something which John found privately adorable. And very Sherlock. Sometimes, if Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, John would sit at the other end. And sometimes Sherlock liked to curl up against him, which was all right too. He’d discovered that Sherlock almost seemed to go into a sort of meditative trance when he ran his bear over his face, which was why he hadn’t heard John come up that first night. It was a bit odd, but private and fine--and a bit sweet in a way. It was trust, and John valued that. That someone like Sherlock who didn’t really trust anyone let John see this side of him was sort of brilliant.

Then Moriarty happened, and they both nearly got themselves blown to hell and gone in that stupid pool. And John realized he needed a bit of space and time to get himself back together. Think about whether he really wanted to be on edge and wary for the rest of his life, or if this really was all some weird form of PTSD and he needed to move on and settle down and grow roots. Sarah came too, and she was sweet could be, and they tried to have sex, but John just couldn’t seem to settle down and focus on the moment. The whole trip was just... _boring_. And maybe he was fucked up and broken in ways that Sally Donovan wouldn’t believe, but if that trip proved anything, it was that he just couldn’t do boring. Not anymore. So, he headed back to London, to the familiar sights and smells and to at least one maniac trying to kill him.

He wasn’t expecting the squad cars out front of 221B, though. He sprinted out of the cab as soon as he’d paid the driver, and up into the flat.

Sherlock was there (he breathed a sigh of relief at that), but he looked like shite--ragged, and grey, and like he hadn’t washed in a week or eaten in nearly as long. His robe was the worse for wear too, and he was arguing furiously with Greg. “I am not _using_ , Lestrade!”

Greg ran his hand over his face. “I want to believe you, Sherlock. But you were caught on film buying from a known dealer. You know we have to check into it.”

Just then, Anderson walked out, his hands gloved, and carrying Argon by the ear. “Really, a stuffed bear, Holmes? You couldn’t come up with a better hiding place than that? And in your bed too? You need something to cuddle up with? Does Holmsey-Wolmsey need a snuggule-wuggle?”

Sherlock blanched slightly and seemed to shrink in on himself--just as John strode across the room in two strides and punched Anderson in the face. Which he knew damn well was a terrible way to go at someone (likely to break your hand sooner than their face), but it was less likely to be fatal than any of the other dozen fighting moves he knew. And pissed as he was, he was going for minor injury, not hospitalization. When he spoke, his voice was low, but deadly cold. “You will never, ever speak to Sherlock that way again, Anderson,” he said, ignoring the sting in his knuckles. “Now. Give me the bear and get out before I do something you’ll regret.”

He took the toy from Anderson and turned to Lestrade, his face an icy mask. “Given that we already know someone is after Sherlock, next time you might consider thinking twice before acting on anonymous tips. If Sherlock were going to buy drugs, he’d damn well not miss any cameras that were around.” He wouldn’t want to make it easier for his brother to know, for a start. “Now. Take your people and get out. And next time, don’t bring people with a grudge on your drugs bust, or we’re going to have words. Am I clear?” The tone was not raised, but even Greg seemed to swallow a bit hard. Good.

“Yeah. Sorry, John. Let’s go, folks.” Greg motioned, and reluctantly the rest of the officers from NSY followed him out. John let out his breath explosively and went to Sherlock, handing him the teddy.

“Sorry, Sherlock. He’s an arse.” Sherlock nearly snatched the bear from his hands, clutching it to his chest and...were those tears hovering on the edge of his eyelids a bit? Sherlock scowled and blinked them away a bit, curling up.

“I didn’t, you know. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

John sighed and sat down next to him. “I’m glad. You look terrible, though. Sorry.” They hadn’t really talked about it much, about what had happened with Moriarty. Sherlock scooted over to him and put his head in John’s lap, looking as if he could hardly keep his eyes open. God knew when the last time he slept was, and for a while, John thought he was just going to sleep right here on the floor.

But then he spoke, quietly and looking determinedly at the wall. “Most people wouldn’t have come back.”

John let out a sound that was half-sigh and half-laugh. “Yeah, I guess so. But I’m not most people. And anyway. I’m mad too, so I suppose we get on well together.” He shifted a bit, the position sort of uncomfortable on the thin carpet. “C’mon. Let’s get some food, and then you’re going to get some rest.” He started to stand up, but he was startled by Sherlock pulling him into a hug that nearly knocked him over and was almost uncomfortably tight.

“Thank you, John.” The tone was casual--as casual as it could be with his head buried in John’s shoulder, but John could hear the sincerity shaking in it.

John returned the hug awkwardly and nodded. “You’re welcome, all right? Now. Come on. I’ll make you some tea.”


End file.
